No, I have yet to take violence for a home run toward my own visage, but man I want to stab something, that’s for goddamn sure.
There are fruit flies in my bedroom. Yes, that’s right, fruit flies. Those little fuckers that magically appear when you have old bananas that didn’t make it into a batch of Banana Bread before they became seeping black mush spears of hate…have invaded the serenity of my boudoir.
How did they manage this, you ask? I have NO fecking clue.
My daughter left a sippy cup in my bedroom on some god forsaken day in the past and it managed to slip, undetected, under my bed. That is my ONLY theory, for when I found the bad larry, it was ancient coagulated vengeance, though I did not, in fact, see fruit flies, vestigial or otherwise.
(Vestigial = knowledge gleaned from an ancient Biology class where we raised and harvested the bastards, then drugged them to count them under a microscope. Apparently there is a common enough trait amongst fruit flies to be born with wings as useless as a lint roller to a hairless cat that it was worthy of an entire month long section of studies in Westford Academy. Well, I am unsure if there are any non-flying fruit flies in my room, but I assure you, flying or otherwise, they’re all going to die.)
Anyway, their numbers have been dwindling the past few days (given my constant hunt and kill tactics), but I still spot one here and there in the light of my laptop at this hour and it makes for homicidal thoughts when I should be relaxing, perhaps even writing my novel.
Will be a strange book I write, if during epic climactic conflicts the whole scene descends into a hate filled rant about Gnats.
I want to kill something.